


Lost In The Lines Between, The Darkness Found It's Queen.

by babydollcandy



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Johnny Gargano, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, One-Sided Attraction, Perversion, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 15:52:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18552934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babydollcandy/pseuds/babydollcandy
Summary: "The champ' knows better than anyone when Johnny boy here gets fixated on something, he refuses to let it go."Tommaso Ciampa wasn't wrong. Johnny Gargano was fixated on someone. He's fixated on you and by the time he realizes he’s more invested than he should be, it’s too late.





	Lost In The Lines Between, The Darkness Found It's Queen.

 

" _Time will blur the incongruities and moss over your mistakes._ "

 

* * *

 

Sunday night unfolded the only way possible: you, Frankie, the bedroom, and Netflix. That's how it was usually done between you guys, and no matter how 'boring' that might have seemed to other couples, that's just how you guys liked it done, with sex and cuddling afterward. Cliche, yeah, maybe, but rather that than arguing over what happened to the twenty dollars in my purse yesterday... and nobody wants to go through that at one in the fuckin' morning.

 

The television has already been turned off, and Frankie is redressing, getting ready to head off on his merry way, wherever that is, when he suddenly throws himself back down on the bed. The impact bounces you to your feet and you look back at him, or rather the object of fur in his hands; a teddy bear. The appearance of it does something to you, shakes your insides violently, till' the skin around your eyes are throbbing.

 

You leap onto the bed and attempt to snatch it from his hands, but he quickly stretches his hand out of your reach. "How come you don't get rid of this thing?" he asks. "It's creepy."

 

And well, you pause, realizing he's not completely wrong. The damn thing is a piece of rag, a gift from _him_ , your ex, but you willn't say his name. It had the stale scent of rain, the fur was patchy and rough, and the eye... one of the eyes was about to fall out. You could never sleep with it next to you and always opted to keep it in the closet. Even then, you still felt like _something_ was watching you, and you aren't a paranoid individual, but something about it, like currently, how it's stares, makes you involuntarily look away.

 

"Just... put it down, okay?" It sounds practically like a plead, and you hate that.

 

Frankie looks over you, and his eyes screw up. Somehow, he sees it on your face, ridden in your body language, _he gets it_. The teddy bear is lowered onto the floor. "I'm sorry," he says, and makes a move to grab at your hands. They're not as warm as he remembered a couple of minutes ago. "Look at me."

 

You turn. "Hm?"

 

"I'm sorry," again, he says, and with emphasis.

 

You trace circles around the back of his hands with your thumb. "You don't gotta apologize. It's just a stupid teddy bear, and creepy, and it's disrespectful, and... I don't know? I just can't get rid of it. I should. But..."

 

"But you loved him."

 

"Hm. Love." You can't fathom the word, and feel your eyes start to shut on you just by the mere intoxicating memory. What you and Johnny had wasn't _love_. It stopped being that for a while, and you refuse to revisit it mentally, emotionally, or whatever way possible.

 

By two in the morning, you and Frankie are telling each other goodbye, whispering quick kisses, and assuring he hasn't left anything behind because that was so him. If it wasn't a sweater, an underwear, it was his phone, and you wanted to be rid of him for the remainder of the day. At least until you got a good night's rest.

 

"Get home safe. Im'a be asleep but text me before you head to sleep," you told him at the front door, and soon, he's out of sight and out of mind.

 

Wandering into the bathroom, you change into that yellow, ragged t-shirt Frankie left behind two months ago and secretly, you've kept. His odor, Old Spice and thirty-dollar cologne, brings a sense of... home? No. _Comfort_. That's the word. And it was a damn good smell to fall asleep to.

 

You're about to use the toilet for the last time tonight, when a loud knock at the door startles you to a pause. Then you blink and realize it's most likely Frankie, it's got to be, because nobody is sane enough to be banging on someone's door at two in the morning. _He must of forgot something_ , you tell yourself, frustrated, _of course it's him_.

 

Poking your head into the hallway connecting the living room to the rest of the apartment, you shout as loud as possible for Frankie to _hold on_ , but then there's another knock that follows immediately after. You give your cell phone screen a quick once over, and it's strange because there aren't any messages or missed calls from Frankie since he left, nothing letting you know he was shooting back over. And now the knocking is starting to get ridiculous; the third one goes off like a shot gun, officially resorting to full-on _banging_.

 

You stomp into the bedroom, searching around as if your head is on a swivel, and at last find a crumbled ten dollar bill lying on the ground beside the bed post. All this lousy banging for ten fuckin' dollars? You were pissed off, mostly because of that, _and_ he was giving you a heart attack about now.

 

"Frankie!" You shout from the bedroom doorway, and the knocking suddenly falls quiet. "Get in here! I'm in the bedroom!" Frankie had a key, unfortunately it's only been used for situations like this.

 

Seconds later of what probably was Frankie fiddling with the lock, the front door is heard being slammed closed. You bend down and pick the money off the carpet, listening to the footsteps of light sneakers walking about in the living room. And yet, no sign of him.

 

"Frankie," you call out, wondering how much more did he want to piss you off. "Frankie! Come here!"

 

After another lack of response, you trudge into the living room, and flick on the light, half expecting to see him there among the furniture, with a cheeky grin, but... but... nobody is there. What? Did he think this was funny? Because it wasn't. You weren't laughing. In fact, the exact opposite. Marching back into the bedroom, you decide to give his cell phone a ring, knowing all too well he hadn't thought about this part of the 'game.' Or maybe he did, because you don't hear his ringtone.

 

One thing does catch you off guard, however, and that's the fact he answers, and with such strength in his voice that you should be able to hear his voice from anywhere in the apartment.

 

"Yeah, babe? Can't sleep?"

 

"Stop playing and come to the bedroom, unless you don't want your money because..."

 

"What?" He laughs abruptly, confused. "What, what are you talkin' about? Come to the bedroom? I'm not at your house."

 

A stunning silence comes over the ongoing call.

 

Gradually, you draw the cell phone from the side of your face, eyes wide and tense. Your gaze stays on the ground, too frightened to take a risk and glimpse what could be there if you turned around. You listen in for the sound of a footstep, and distantly note that maybe you just heard what seems to be breathing, or maybe it's the paranoia starting to creep up on you... whatever it may be, you refuse to be that stupid chick that doesn't think to call the police.

 

"911, what's your emergency?"

 

"Um..." You try to think of something, making hast headway for the bedroom. "Hey, um, Tiff? It's me."

 

"P-pardon me, m'am? This line is for emergency situa—"

 

"Yes, of course it is," you say, about to close the door of your bedroom when there's a sudden click to the left of you, and it doesn't take long for the source to present its self. Being cooly pressed into one of your temples, is the muzzle of a handgun. The realization completely shatters your train of thought, and you do nothing but feel your muscles contract, inevitably freezing.

 

"Hang up the phone," a man's voice demands, low and fierce, and somehow the word 'no' is penetrating your brain. _No, no, no_ , and the pulse of your heart is in the back of your throat, because you couldn't mistake this voice for anybody's but _his_...

 

"J-Johnny," it's a tremoring breath of fright, and yet, disappointment. You've both made it clear months ago this wasn't healthy; the calls, the dozen messages, the surprise appearances at your work, the isolation. You couldn't breathe in his bubble, and he wasn't going to let up.

 

"I said hang up. _Now_. And give it to me."

 

Your compliance is instant, and you hand over your cell phone. A moment passes of where, maybe, he puts your cell phone in his pocket, or he stands there, thinking, of what his next step. Hopefully he didn't think this through. This could be a 'heat-of-the-moment' situation. Right? He's angry about the last time he called and you didn't pick up? Or he saw you and Frankie out and about, and something ticked in his head? Is that what this is? Anger, revenge?

 

Just then he steps in front of you, his face in clear proximity of yours, and God... as he moves, the muzzle drags from your temple to your forehead. You look away, from him, and shut your eyes. The utter blackness that you see makes you hopeful this is all just a terrible nightmare, that when you reopen your eyes, Johnny will be gone.

 

"No, no," he says, as if the act of not looking at him was displeasing and hurtful, and his hand lands around your jaw, giving it a horrible jerk. "Open. Look at me."

 

And you do, slow and deliberate, and you can see something isn't 'okay' with him. It's all in his stare, hollow and pit-like, never quite seeing an end, and the manner in which he devours the sight of _you_ brings a skip to your heart. Johnny knows that, like a sixth sense in the form of some primal instinct. He drags the muzzle of the handgun from your forehead, down the side of your neck, and you can't help but stifle a breath that fights past your mouth.

 

"Hm," he bites his lip, asking, "You remember how I used to kiss you?"

 

"Johnny..."

 

"Answer the question," and he's not even looking into your eyes anymore. He's staring at your chest, caught by the hardening of your breasts, and just when you think you know where the gun is going to land next, he averts it back at your face. He clears his throat, expectedly.

 

"You, um, used to put your tongue in my mouth," you say, trying for a fierce tone.

 

"Oh." He smiles and closes the distance in languid strides, stopping several inches away from you. "That's it? I just put my tongue in your mouth? Come on, you can do better than that. Tell me how it felt when I sunk my teeth into your shoulder and you'd wriggle in pleasure; tell me how how hot and heavy my tongue felt on your neck; tell me what I tasted like. Then ... I want you to tell me," and suddenly the humor is no longer in his voice, "if Frankie ever did any better?"

 

"You're fucking disgusting," you spit out, livid, and there's a blur of movement before Johnny's hand is knotted around your neck, forcing your back so hard against the wall you yelp.

 

"No, you are fucking disgusting," he sneers into your ear, pressing himself into you to keep your struggle minimal. "For sleeping with him, someone as unclean as him, who probably would leave you for the next trick at a moment's notice. Where else do you think he goes after he leaves here? Home?" He adjusts his face just in an effort to laugh into yours, indifferent and harsh. "What happened to you? What did he do to make you so ignorant?"

 

"Get—off of me!" You slam your palms into his chest, putting forth as much strength as possible to push him off, not caring if he emptied a bullet into you right now, as long as you were _away_ from him. But damn it, you know Johnny's strength, you know what he's capable of, and to fight him? The odds aren't in your corner, but still, you have to try _something_.

 

You throw your foot between his legs, aiming for his groin, but he slams his legs closed just in the nick of time. He grabs your shoulders and hurls you to the ground, taking the butt of the handgun and whacking it across your face. There's a white-hot flash of pain that robs the soul from your body and causes you to cradle in on yourself.

 

Overhead, Johnny looms, and from a gap between your arms, you see him watching. He takes your elbow, a sort've tender touch, and begins pulling your arm from your face. A part of you wants to keep on fighting him, to try something else, but what could you do against a gun? Nothing... nothing for now. A soft inhale is the only indication of his intention as he helps you back to your feet, and you let him, careful as possible.

 

For a moment, he considers the red knot sprouting underneath your eye and his lips part, but no sound comes out. The handgun is raised again, and pressed into the side of your ribs. Little by little, you're forced to walk out of the bedroom, and into the hallway...

 

"Someone's going to know what you've done," you mutter, rather stiffly, "and then you'll finally be where you belong. In jail."

 

"Not tonight, no I'm not."

 


End file.
